


Across the Gap

by thethinkingfruit



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort/Angst, Dreams, Lack of Communication, M/M, Minor Characters with Bad Timing, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-22 21:51:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6095162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethinkingfruit/pseuds/thethinkingfruit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chrom discovers that sometimes, it's harder than one thinks to not get too attached to your comrades, despite what you promise yourself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you just need to write sad emotions. This features one of my characters, a My Unit named Mathias. He's generally more jittery than others!

          Mathias was handsome. Chrom had not noticed it at first, he was too busy trying to put together where Mathias was from, why Mathias remembered so little, why he was so calm about it. Mathias would be the one reassuring Chrom, telling him that, “It’s all right. I’ll remember in due time. That’s what all the books say.” He would hold up the newest book—on memory loss, he had found it when they first reached the capital and began to settle in—and smile, before flipping open to the page and reading it again, committing its words to memory.

          Chrom had not noticed how carefully he fixed his hair in the morning. The soft pink locks would be brushed back and pulled into their pinned-back state, the ends fraying and sticking up awkwardly behind Mathias’ skull like a little crown. He had not noticed how the sweat made his muscles shine as he trained with a sword, practicing, fighting imaginary enemies, his coat discarded on the ground.

          He had not noticed how Mathias looked at him like he was the universe. Not at first.

          Chrom often tried to pass off Mathias’ warm smiles as just mandatory—Mathias smiled at everyone warmly. It was rare to see him look angry or upset, but Mathias practically glowed when he looked at Chrom. He tried to pretend that it wasn’t there. That Mathias just looked at him like he looked at everyone else. Chrom swore that, he would not, let Mathias fall, not for him.

          But Chrom forgot to swear that he would not fall himself. The last battle had been harsh. Mathias had done his best—there were no casualties—but there had been some close calls. Lissa was nearly struck down by a mercenary’s blade. Chrom went to shout, to warn her, but Mathias got there first. His blade pierced the mercenary’s chest, but not before the mercenary’s own blade caught his shoulder, slashed at his throat.

          Chrom’s heart squeezed painfully. Mathias’ name ripped from his vocal cords. Lissa, of course, saved him. She healed him as soon as she saw the blade cut their tactician. But Mathias still looked pale, clammy, as he staggered to his feet, as his fresh wound started to scab and scar. He pointed his sword and the plan continued, but Chrom’s eyes kept glancing towards him, watching him, and when he could he came close to Mathias, after the battle, as they tried to pitch camp.

          “Are you all right?” he asked, trying to wipe the blood from his blade. Everyone had made up the tents, had made fires, and people started cooking, careful to keep Sully away from the kettles. Mathias smiled—that infuriating, beautiful, sad smile—and nodded.

          “Yes,” he replied, sitting down. The scarring was starting to heal, puckering, the scabs almost vanished. “I’m fine.”

          Chrom’s throat tightened and he nodded. He clapped Mathias on the shoulder, and went to check on everyone else. Things were quiet, everyone soon relaxed, but Chrom could not. When he finally returned to his tent—he gave Fredrick the night off, everyone needed their rest, after all—Mathias was already curled up in his bedroll, coat folded neatly, sword and tome at the ready. Chrom had wanted to speak with him. About what, Chrom was not sure, but he watched how Mathias’ chest rose and fall as he took a breath, how his tongue would lick his lips as he murmured in his sleep, how soft they looked, how Chrom longed to—

          Chrom stopped. He blinked, and felt his chest tighten even more. He had almost lost his breath. Instead, he tried to shed his armor, put them down next to his sword. He crawled into his own bedroll, and tried to sleep. The camp grew quiet.

          It was then, and only then, that Chrom heard it. The scared whimpers, the frantic, desperate gasps. The way that Mathias struggled against his bedroll, how he grasped at his shirt, neck craning like he was being cut, again, by the mercenary’s blade.

          But it was when Mathias gasped, almost like a prayer, _“Chrom,”_ his normally firm voice weak with longing and fear that Chrom’s resolve melted. No, not melted—shattered. It broke quicker than a pane of glass against a rock. Mathias’ cries grew more desperate, more frightened, louder, but Chrom ripped himself from his bedroll and was over in an instant.

          “Mathias,” he breathed, leaning over him, knees pressing into the grass and into Mathias’ bedroll. Mathias’ breath hitched as Chrom’s hands took his shoulders, and his eyes flew open, wide, wild, and afraid.

          “Ch…Chrom…?” he asked, his voice a whisper. His forehead was drenched with sweat, his hair disheveled, chest heaving and shuddering. He tried to prop himself up on his elbows but sleep or weakness would not let him, and he tried, to hide a building sob.

         “I’m here,” Chrom said, and Mathias’ hands grasped at Chrom’s shirt. He almost dragged him down, but Chrom held firm, and instead pulled Mathias to him. “I’m here, Mathias, I’m here.”

          “I-I…no, I’m sorry, I should not have—” Mathias tried to pull back, to retreat behind his smile, behind his placid mask, but Chrom shook his head. He held him tighter, gazing at him, at his disheveled state, and he could feel Mathias’ heart strumming, protests on his lips.

          “No.” Chrom shook his head. He held him tighter, just for a few moments. Mathias’ protests fell quiet and he trembled, shuddering against him. “I’m here, Mathias. I know. You’ve been very strong. It’s okay to be frightened. It’s okay, I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

          Mathias whimpered again but said nothing, nodding against Chrom’s chest. Then something unexpected happened. Mathias, still half delirious with sleep, reached up, grasping the sides of Chrom’s face. He kissed him, simply, and sweetly on his lips. Then he slipped away, and buried himself into Chrom’s chest, as Chrom’s face heated up. Chrom let him sit for a few moments, before he carefully maneuvered around. He let Mathias lie down, but Mathias’ head lay on his chest. His strong arms wrapped around Chrom’s waist, and Chrom’s legs tangled with Mathias’ own.

          “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and rough. Chrom said nothing but his hand drew Mathias’ hair from his face, stroking his cheek. They lay like that until early morning. When Mathias had finally fell into a deep sleep, Chrom rose when the sun did. He started to help make breakfast, leaving Mathias in the tent, alone.

          “Shall I wake Mathias?” Fredrick asked, passing Chrom a bowl as the early risers started to head towards the smell of warm breakfast.

          “No,” Chrom replied, serving Sumia her breakfast. “Let him rest. He needs it.”

          If Mathias wanted to discuss anything about that night—if he even remembered it—he did not let on. Chrom was not sure whether he should have been offended, worried, or relieved. Mathias rose a short time later, ate his breakfast, and the day continued onwards. People recovered, recuperated, regrouped. Mathias went back to his normal mantra of reading strategy books, hovering over maps, planning for their next course of action. He broke his normal routine at dinner, joining everyone outside for the meal instead of taking it in his makeshift study. He smiled at Chrom, smiled at _everyone_ , despite nearly dying the day before. Lissa was careful to check his injuries but was glad to inform everyone that he was healing just fine.

          But his gaze lingered over Chrom a little longer than normal than was custom. Quick enough that no one caught it but Chrom, and when Chrom caught Mathias’ eye, Mathias’ smile dropped, and he looked away, as if he was ashamed. Chrom had been basking in the glow of his gaze, the warmth, the pure happiness that was radiating from it, and to have it taken away so quickly made Chrom’s brow furrow into a frown.

          “Chrom? What’s eatin’ ya, buddy?” Vaike asked, slapping him on the back. Chrom started and looked back up. Mathias had gone, his retreating form hurrying towards the tactical tent, to hide, his bowl of food probably in his hands. Chrom’s throat tightened and he wanted to call, _“Wait, come back!”_

          “Huh?”

          “You’re looking kind of grim,” Vaike replied, slurping down his food.

          “I’m fine. Excuse me for a moment?” He set his food down, dusted his trousers off, and was in pursuit. He didn’t run—Chrom didn’t want to look suspicious, or worried, but he walked, rather briskly, and with purpose. Those heading towards the campfire to gather dinner quickly got out of his way as he strode towards the tactical tent. Once he was outside, he paused, uneasy. Almost unsure of how to broach the subject.

          Finally, he cleared his throat. From inside the tent, sounding like he was miles away, Mathias said, “…Yes?”

          “It’s just me, Mathias,” Chrom replied. “Can I come in?”

          The silence was agony, as the moments ticked by, before Mathias replied, “Yes, of course. Please, come in.”

          Chrom pushed aside the tent flap and blinked at the darkness. The sun had already set, but Mathias’ study tent was in the shade, and he only had a few candles lit in the span of arriving there in the mere moments that Chrom had spent practically sprinting to get there once he was out of the sight of their comrades.

          Mathias looked exhausted, even worse in the poor lighting. His hair was starting to slip from its bindings and a few bangs were sticking awkwardly to his sweaty forehead.

          But he smiled. It looked pained, but he smiled at Chrom.

          “Please, have a seat,” he said politely, taking a spot at the chair at his desk. Chrom swallowed, the tent suddenly feeling stuffy, before he nodded, and came over to sit at the opposing chair. He started to eat, moving a map of Plegia out of the way so no soup drops would spill, as Mathias looked at his bowl with a look of odd distaste.

          “Is something wrong?” Mathias asked, after a few minutes of the awkward silence.

          “You’re not hungry?” Chrom asked, brow furrowing. Mathias looked at his bowl again, before he nodded.

          “I haven’t had much of an appetite today,” he admitted. “It smells fine, I’m just…not hungry.”

          “Didn’t sleep well?” Chrom asked, carefully laying the bait. Or at least, he thought he was carefully laying the bait, but a second later Mathias’ eyes widened and he looked so panicked that Chrom wondered if he had the gentle tact of a battering ram when it came to touchy subjects. “Mathias, I—”

          “I apologize for my behavior last night,” Mathias said quickly, looking away. “And, if it pleases you, I am thinking of switching tent arrangements.”

          Chrom blinked. That was the exact opposite that he wanted. Chrom, despite everything that was happening, felt safe when Mathias and he were side by side. They fit together. It worked. Even though they were dancing around it, despite Chrom’s best efforts both knew that they were in— _damn it._ Chron still couldn’t say it.

          “I…why?”

          Mathias worried his lower lip, becoming increasingly fascinated with his bowl of soup, like he was trying to come up with a reason that would blame the meal. He struggled quietly, to come up with a correctly worded response.

          “I believe it would lead to…stronger, team ties,” Mathias began, voice trembling. _Why was he so frightened?_ “It would help strengthen relationships across the board. Some have grown close and I am pleased but upcoming battles may require that we have different people work together—

          He continued to ramble, talking about what needed to be done, the proper arrangements, the possible groups. The room had grown stuffier as the time went on, as Mathias continued to speak. The desk was small, Chrom noticed. Mathias’ knees barely fit under it. He had promised Mathias a new desk. The soup had gone cold and Chrom gazed back at Mathias, his lips chapped from too much worrying from his teeth, but still, pink and warm and inviting.

          “Mathias?”

          The tactician blinked and blushed, crumbling underneath Chrom’s stern gaze. “Yes, m’lord?”

          “It’s just Chrom.”

          “Huh?”

          “You only say m’lord when you’re upset.” Chrom blinked at him. “Mathias, look at me. Please.”

          Chrom leaned over the desk, trying to peer at the tactician, who was trying to hide behind…well, there was nothing to hide behind. Mathias just kept looking down, trying to close in on himself. Finally, after a few moments of worry, Mathias looked up at Chrom, with sad eyes and a tormented frown.

          “I would feel safer if you stayed,” the lord replied. “In our tent. With…” He swallowed. “With me.”

          Mathias remained quiet, gazing quietly at his hands. Chrom sometimes wished he knew what was going on in the tactician’s head because once he was calculating, his face gave away nothing. Almost like he was relenting, Mathias’ fists clenched, and unclenched.

          “I…suppose, it would not hurt if we remained with the same tent mates for a while,” he finally whispered.

          “Yes,” Chrom replied eagerly.

          “It would be bad, for team moral, to be separated from...close companions.”

          “Of course.”

          Mathias still looked concerned, uncomfortable. Chrom rose after a few moments, and moved quietly from the tent. When the night came, and Chrom returned to his own familiar dwellings, he found that Mathias had already gone to sleep, soup uneaten. As Chrom crawled into his bedroll, he wanted to reach across the gap between them—whatever was forming, he wasn’t sure—and hold Mathias when Mathias started to thrash in his sleep, but he couldn’t. Not yet. Mathias, Chrom hoped, would let him in when he felt ready.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting to ever continue this--but here we are, almost a year later, and I have a second part. It kept popping up in my drafts and I finally cleaned it up. Of course, I have an entire story in my head, but I only have so much time to write...
> 
> Nevertheless, the rating went up due to Chrom's...active imagination (honestly I don't know what else to call it. If you think it needs to be upped further, please let me know).

                The dreams made it difficult. Not that Chrom minded the dreams. More often than not, he would dream of Mathias. By Mathias, gazing upwards towards the stars, eyes shining, bright with their light. With Mathias, walking through the palace gardens, hands touching, with comfort on their fingertips. On top of Mathias, lungs gasping, releasing gusty moans as his hands roamed Mathias’ skin.

                It was always the last dreams that woke him. Chrom would wake before they finished, startled, but his body would always get the memo late and finish for him. Too many times he woke to find himself biting his knuckle rough enough to draw blood, muffling his groan. Mathias, across the tent, would shuffle in his sleep but not wake. After the first few dreams, Chrom got into the habit of rising early to clean himself and his mess before anyone noticed, and occasionally, bandage his hand.

                Of course, these worries were often pushed from Chrom’s mind. They were at war, after all, and most days he didn’t have time to dwell on his tactician’s lips and touches, but when he did, he buried the feelings. Mathias, if he had noticed them, did not reciprocate. Even if they had shared one sleepy kiss one evening, Mathias had removed himself from Chrom’s presence for a time, and now kept his distance. The most contact they had was looking at each other across the war table, or the campfire, or across the tent. The gap between them had come to a standstill, and Chrom decided that it was fine. Chrom respected him more than anyone—as a tactician, as a commander, as a friend—and to ruin what they had because Chrom woke up with a tacky feeling in his pants was insanity. If that meant that they didn’t even touch, he would be all right, as long as they could remain by each other’s side.

                That was, until _Mathias_ broke the gap. Chrom wasn’t expecting it and it caught him off guard. Chrom had been training, Falchion swinging against imaginary enemies. He had discarded a bit of his normal wardrobe, with his tattered cape, gloves, and gauntlets on the ground. It had been too warm to practice in full regalia. He was thinking of calling it a day, prepared to deal with strategy, budgeting, and other war-related manners, when a shadow fell over him.

                “Chrom?” asked Mathias, stepping towards him. He had a cluster of rolled up scrolls in his arm. His brow was furrowed with worry just so delicately, hair falling loose from its clip.  Mathias reached out, and took Chrom’s wrist before the tactician could stop himself. A thumb trailed over the bandage, pressing lightly against the bite, and Chrom felt a shiver building in his spine. “What happened to your hand?”

                Much to Chrom’s internal horror, Chrom found himself pulling his hand away, trying to hide it. _He’s your friend. We made our choices—don’t ruin this, don’t even think about it._ He rubbed the back of his head and forced a smile, hiding the hand effectively. “I scraped it. It’s nothing to worry about.”

                Mathias frowned deeper. “Are you sure? You might want Lissa to take a look at it.”

                “I’m sure,” Chrom replied. He swallowed thickly, and tried to guise it by wiping his forehead, feigning exhaustion. Sweat soaked into the bandage. He picked up Falchion again with his uninjured hand, feeling the weight of the sword hilt in his palm. “You want to join me? Sparing? I can only practice forms for so long before it gets boring.”

                Mathias blinked, worry lessening. Chrom thought he saw a twinkle in the tactician’s eye, a consideration. They didn’t spar regularly—but when they did, both enjoyed it. Then the twinkle vanished, and Mathias looked away. Chrom knew he was going to say no.

                “I still have some strategies to work out, and I promised I’d help sort supplies,” Mathias replied. An awkward pause fell over both of them. “We’re running low on a few things, and I need to send people into town. I might need to join them. I think the merchant there is trying to swindle us out of sales.”

                Chrom cleared his throat, and looked away. “Ah—yes. Right. Maybe…next time, then?”

                Mathias paused for a moment. Then, hesitant, he smiled.

                “Yeah,” he said, practically glowing in the afternoon light. “Next time, okay?”

                Hope, Chrom decided, was a terrifying thing. It was enough to make him work on parries and thrusts for the rest of the afternoon, thinking of how Mathias moved on the battlefield and how Chrom might be able to match him. When he finally stopped his muscles burned like a hot iron. He practically melted into his bedroll that evening, and dreamed of Mathias’ lips on his, strong hands drifting further than just his wrist. If Chrom had been smart, he would have taken Mathias’ suggestion of switching tents.

                That evening, it had been a particularly blissful dream that Chrom found himself being roused from. Mathias had been whispering his name, breath hot in his ear, and Chrom gasped—only to be shaken awake.

                “Chrom?”

                This voice wasn’t hot and lusty, but quiet and confused. Chrom sat up, beads of sweat clinging to his skin, and Mathias’ large hand was on his shoulder. He wanted to flinch away, but could not.

                “M-Mathias!” He hoped it was dark enough that Mathias couldn’t see the heat rising in his cheeks. Then he realized how his blanket was tenting, and he hurriedly went to cover it. Mathias seemed none the wiser as his grip loosened on Chrom’s shoulder. “Y-Yes, what is it?”

                “You…uh…” Mathias seemed at a loss for words. He looked away from Chrom, hand slipping from Chrom’s shoulder. “I—it was nothing. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

                Chrom, waking up from his haze, shook himself to focus. He reached out, taking Mathias’ hand as it tried to retreat. Chrom’s bandaged hand loosely held Mathias’, the tactician’s own brand being rubbed by Chrom’s thumb soothingly. “No, no, what is it? You woke me. It must be important.”

                Mathias licked his lips and shook his head. His pink hair was down, cascading over his shoulders, framing his face. He wanted to speak. Chrom could see it on his face, how his lips moved to mouth words but stopped abruptly, how his throat tensed to push air for sounds but cut them off.

                “Mathias, please,” he murmured. He held Mathias’ hand tighter. “Speak your mind.”

                “I was—I heard—you were calling my name,” Mathias replied. Chrom swore there was a blush. “I thought something was wrong.”

                Chrom was too hazy to be mortified. “It…it was just a dream, Mathias. Dreams have been…plaguing me as of late.” A beat passed in silence. “It’s a bit hard to explain.” That was a lie, but no amount of sleepiness would make Chrom brave enough to say something. Not yet.

                Mathias’s licked his lips again. He went to pull away, but stopped. He wanted to say something more. Chrom waited, and when Mathias’ didn’t speak, he tried to prompt him. “Anything else?”

                “T-Tomorrow. Sparring—would you like to?”

                Chrom froze. Mathias froze as well, before Chrom managed to smile.

                “Yes, that would be wonderful,” he said. Mathias graced him with the sweetest of smiles.

                “Sweet dreams, Chrom,” Mathias said, relief leaking into his voice. He crawled back to his own bedroll and slipped underneath the covers. Chrom tried to do the same, rolling onto his side away from Mathias so he wouldn’t see a thing. When Chrom did finally drift off to sleep and dreamed, it was just him and Mathias, lying next to each other. Their hands were barely touching, but the closeness there let warmth bloom in his chest.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually gathering momentum for this story. I don't know where it's coming from but I want to finish it, even if it's dreadfully late. Thank you for the kind comments people have left even after my motivation left me.

          Sparring did not happen the next day like Chrom and Mathias had originally planned. In a stroke of luck, they made better time than Mathias had originally predicted, and the Shepherds made it back from Regna Ferox in record time. When the group reached the safety of Ylistoll there was too much to take care of at once—Mathias was tasked with settling the Shepherds in and Chrom was asked to report immediately to Emmeryn with the grand news that the Khans of Ferox were willing to support Ylisse during its time of need. Then they received news that Maribelle had been absconded by the Plegians—Gangrel no less—and soon they were preoccupied with trying to handle that situation as quickly and as peacefully as possible.

          Chrom, admittedly, realized that it was his fault that situation had not gone as planned.

          Nevertheless, Mathias’s planning made sure that everyone, yet again, returned safely home. It wasn’t until everyone was back at Ylistoll once again that Chrom found that he could finally relax, and his mind drifted back to the promise they had made camped outside the outskirts of Regna Ferox.

          Chrom was in the barracks, under the guise that he was going to help Mathias take stock of what they had, when Chrom remembered their promise of sparring. In reality, Mathias took stock and Chrom kept him company, making sure that Mathias didn’t walk into any beams or had questions of where things were kept. Mathias muttered numbers under his breath and made tick marks on a piece of paper he had brought with him, while Chrom decided that maybe a bit of a distraction would be welcome.

          “Let’s see…we should probably buy some more swords,” Mathias mumbled. “It looks like some of the equipment is in rough shape.” He looked up at Chrom. “Are there funds for that? Where would I find information about that in the castle?”

          Chrom absently fiddled with a few shields that had just been polished, maybe by Stahl or Kellum, before moving onto the swords that Mathias had evaluated. There was a limited variety, but a pair of training swords caught Chrom’s eye.

          “I’m sure there are funds,” Chrom replied. “And I’ll bring it up with Frederick, or maybe even Em, if you’d like.”

          "Yes, please—and not only for the Shepherds, but for the soldiers, too. If we’re going to be confronting Plegia, we need as much of an advantage as we can get. I don’t want the soldiers’ weapons breaking in the midst of battle. If new ones are out of the option, maybe we can repair the ones we already have. I would also like to speak with the other commanding officers, get to know them a bit better. If they’re going to be taking my orders, then I want to make sure that we’re on good terms.”

          “Makes perfect sense,” Chrom replied, rounding a stand stacked with swords to stop Mathias from wandering of yet another section of the weapons storage. “What if we took a break for now, though?”

          Mathias nearly tripped over his own feet, surprised to see Chrom in front of him so quickly. He clutched the paper and an awkwardly carved pencil he had found to help record things without spilling ink everywhere.

          “Huh?”

          Chrom smiled, and produced the two sparring swords from behind his back. “Sparring! It got lost in the shuffle after everything’s that happened.” He held out one to Mathias, hilt extended so Mathias could take it if he chose. “You still willing to go a few rounds?”

          Mathias blinked, and stared at Chrom’s hands. His hands clenched for a moment, before they relaxed. Their eyes met.

          “That sounds like a good idea. Some sunshine would be nice, too.” Mathias took the sword from him, and tucked his notes into a coat pocket. Chrom grinned.

          “Great. I know the perfect spot.”

          The perfect spot, in truth, was a small clearing near the royal gardens. It was a small distance from the training grounds, protected by the growing hedges and trees. When he was younger, Chrom would go there to practice on his own, away from prying eyes, or if he just wanted a few minutes peace. People knew it was there—a handful of Shepherds, his sisters—but they didn’t come looking for him there unless it was important.

          Mathias stopped at the clearing’s entrance, taking it all in, eyes filled with gleeful, unexpected wonder. “Has this always been here?” he asked, as if he had been living in the castle for years. If anything, Chrom’s favorite part about bringing Mathias to the castle was the sense that, strangely, he had always belonged there. He had blended in almost seamlessly; the servants loved him, the Shepherds thought him as one of their own, and Chrom—well, he tried not to dwell on it too much since it made him a bit pink around the cheeks.

          “Yes! It’s been my own sort of secret hideout for years. Only a handful of people know about this place.”

          Mathias took a moment to investigate one of the flowers growing on the hedges, a crisp white crepe myrtle that just freshly bloomed. “It’s beautiful.”

          Chrom wasn’t sure if Mathias was talking about the flower or the clearing, but he smiled anyways. Mathias stepped back and adjusted the sword in his hand, testing its weight. Then, he pulled off his coat, letting it rest on nearby, low-hanging tree branch. Chrom tried not to stare at Mathias’s biceps as he took a few practice swings.

          “Ready?” asked Mathias, jarring Chrom from his thoughts.

          “I’m not going to go easy on you,” Chrom retorted. Mathias’s rare smile had a competitive edge to it as he grinned, and adjusted his stance.

          Mathias’s fighting style reflected everything else about him—defensive, but only so he could calculate the best time to strike. Their first round was short, with Mathias easily besting after Chrom made a widely reckless move. Mathias’s gentle tap against Chrom’s shoulder, right near his mark, caught Chrom by surprise. They drew back, and Mathias laughed.

          “I thought you weren’t going to go easy on me!” he teased.

          “It was a practice round!”

          “Right, of course.”

          The second one lasted longer, Mathias taking a more offensive stance the more they got into a rhythm. Chrom kept his head in the game as best he could, trying not to be distracted too much by how confident Mathias became while fighting. After waiting for an opportunity, Chrom lunged, and tapped Mathias underneath the ribs with the side of his sword.

          “That’s one for me.”

          “Shit!” Mathias laughed, and wiped his brow. “Okay, okay. Think you can show me that last move again? I think I missed it.”

          “Got distracted?”

          Mathias’s laugh took on a different pitch as his nerves broke through. For a moment Chrom saw the usual Mathias again—scared, a bit nervous. “I—uh—”

          “Come here. I’ll do it slower, and see if you can come up with a way to block it.”

          “R-Right.”

          Mathias shuffled over and Chrom took up a stance. “You left your flank open. I know normally you would have your magic, but when you don’t—”

          “I forget that my right isn’t covered,” finished Mathias. He stood, his right arm raised, as if he was going to shoot lightning from his fingertips at an enemy. “Okay. Try again. I think I know how to do this. It’s coming back to me a bit.”

          Chrom chuckled. “Well, all right. Stay on your toes!” He lunged, sword outstretched. Mathias turned, his own sword in hand, to block. Both of them were too focused on Mathias effectively blocking the blow to notice that their feet got too close, and when Mathias turned to disengage, his foot caught behind Chrom’s calf. The two of them had a split, shared moment of panic, before they tumbled to the ground in a heap. Chrom’s back hit the ground, knocking the wind from him for a moment. Mathias yelped and narrowly miss falling on top of him, managing to catch himself before he face planted into the ground. A bit disoriented, the pair looked at one another, trying to hide their embarrassment. Mathias chuckled, wiping some sweat from his brow again.

          “Well, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind…”

          “Definitely not,” agreed Chrom. “But still, strangely effective…”

          The two fell quiet, and Chrom became painfully aware how close they were. He paused, breath catching in his throat. Mathias blinked before his eyes widened, rooted on the spot, almost frozen in fear, still above Chrom, oh so close, knee pressed in the dirt between his legs. A gentle breeze played with Mathias’ hair. Chrom frowned and reached out to tuck it behind Mathias’s ear, and in a moment of foolish bravery, cupped Mathias’ face. Mathias’ face flushed and he exhaled, Chrom’s name on his lips like a prayer. Any resolve Chrom had crumbled.

          Their swords were long forgotten for just the shortest of moments, but it was enough. Mathias was frozen but he shut his eyes, waiting, anticipating what was to come. Chrom leaned up, his lips just barely brushing against his tactician’s. He felt Mathias’s jaw relax against his palm, and then a slight tentative pressure leaning forward to kiss him firmer.

          “M’lord!”

          Chrom and Mathias both jumped, the moment lost. Quicker than a frightened rabbit, Mathias rolled off of Chrom. Chrom sat up, face flushed, and Mathias was on his feet in and instant and turned to the side just as Frederick’s familiar form rounded the glen’s convenient hedging. Chrom was left sitting on the dirt, dumbfounded and irritated.

          “Frederick?”

          “Ah, there you are, m’lord.” Fredrick casted a glance towards Mathias, who refused to look at anyone has he grabbed his coat off of the tree branch. Chrom rose and brushed himself off while Mathias collected their swords, and passed one to him. He didn’t seem any wiser of what had transpired, however, and for that, Chrom was grateful. “Mathias is here too—that’s good. I have grave news.”

          “Ah, lovely,” Mathias said, voice cracking. “When is it anything else?”

          “I have word from our scouts, about movement on Plegia’s behalf. Lady Emmeryn is summoning everyone for council, as a precaution. She wishes hold council immediately.”

          Mathias adjusting his coat so it hung properly, smoothing its front and then the sleeves. His gaze looked hollow and uncomfortable, but alert. The Mathias that Chrom sparred with was gone. It was now back to being a tactician.

          “Yes, of course. Gather up the Shepherds,” Mathias replied. “I’ll be there momentarily. Just let me grabs some of my maps, and my notes.”

           “Understood.” Frederick turned to Chrom. Any words Chrom wanted to say to Mathias died as Mathias nodded, and strode off, leaving the sparring swords behind.  “We should get moving immediately.” He paused, as if finally noticing Chrom’s annoyance. “Is something the matter, my lord?”

          “Nothing.” Chrom picked up the swords and sighed. “It’s nothing at all.”


End file.
